


one on the right says to the one on the left

by jonez



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Human AU, M/M, hmmmmm., its cute. dont worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonez/pseuds/jonez
Summary: Short piece in which Arthur Kirkland is a paranoid idiot, Francis Bonnefoy is planning something, Matthew Williams is actively aware of this something, and Alfred Jones is mostly just a little bit irritated to be here.





	one on the right says to the one on the left

**Author's Note:**

> so i've been sitting on an ever-expanding aph human au for the better part of two months, and i think i pumped this out in one night like a month ago?  
> it's basically just a campy, self-indulgent, cliché little writing dump about some dumb idiots in love feat. miscommunication and a pair of shitty twins who i definitely didn't project on, what are you even talking about.  
> (don't @ me about the last names with regards to familial relations here. i haven't found enough in me to care about figuring it out /yet/.)  
> also let me know if any brief french phrases are mistranslated. i did my best with online resources but fuck, bro, romance languages screw me up. :/  
> fic title from laments of a mattress by hop along

    Francis Bonnefoy has been acting weird lately.

 

    It culminates the night before some restaurant dinner he’d planned, with Alfred hearing Arthur break a glass.

 

    It hits the ground with a loud shatter, and Alfred looks up from the Mario game he’s playing, pauses it, and rests his chin on the back of the couch to peer at Arthur. He’s kneeling on the ground of the kitchen, swearing quietly and scooping up bits of glass.

 

    He barely meets Alfred’s eyes. “What?”

 

    “You dropped that,” Alfred says loudly, dropping his cheek against the couch. Arthur groans, looking back down at the shards to glass to finish picking them up.

 

    “Yes, I did. Where’s Matthew?”

 

    “Francis took him out.”

 

     “ _Damn it,_ ” Arthur mutters pointedly, curling one hand into a fist and hitting the floor with a furious smack. “He’s never here anymore, have you noticed that?”

 

    “Whad’dya mean?” Alfred asks, turning around and sinking back into the couch cushions. He picks the controller back up, fully intending to get back to his game before Arthur finally huffs loudly.

 

    “He’s going to break up with me.”

 

    “You’re being paranoid,” Alfred tells him loftily, hitting resume and launching right back in.

 

     “No, I’m being realistic. He found something better so he’s never here anymore and tomorrow he’s going to end it with a nice dinner so the bastard can feel better about himself.”

 

    “I don’t think so.”

 

    “And he’s going to take Matthew with him because by _God_ , I’m not bloody good at this, am I?”

 

    “You got us out of there,” Alfred mutters, and Arthur answers with another frantic huff. “Dude, you’re being paranoid. He’s a… better guy than that, I think. ‘Nd, anyways, even if he was, Mattie’d stay here! He loves me too much to leave me alone with you.” Alfred means it teasingly, in the hopes of evaporating these unfounded worries that Arthur’s sitting on like an incubating egg or some more eloquent and thought-provoking analogy than that, but Arthur merely drops the glass out of his hand and puts his face in his palms with a sharp intake of breath. Alfred pauses the game again, turning back around again. “You’re really gonna panic over this, huh?

 

    “Do _not_ tell me how to feel, Alfred,” Arthur says warningly, glaring at him long enough so Alfred can see how dark his expression is.

 

    “Oh- _kay_ , well, if I’m being real honest here, you deserve better than a douche who breaks up with you after three years at a fancy dinner he planned.”

 

    “I didn’t _ask_ you to be _real honest_ ,” Arthur snaps, and he finally heaves a sigh and gets up to grab the dustpan. Alfred watches him brush the glass into the pan and drop it into the trashcan, where he turns back around to face Alfred. “He’s going to. You’ll see.”

 

     Alfred rolls his eyes, trying to make it as obvious as possible through his glasses. “A’ight, fine, I guess I will.”

 

     It’s around two hours later, after Alfred has shut off his game system and retreated to his and Matthew’s shared room, when he hears the front door of the apartment opens quietly. A minute or so later, the door to their room opens, and Matthew steps in, kicking off his boots softly. He must think Alfred’s asleep, because he climbs up the ladder and drops into the top bunk of the bed without saying a word.

 

     Which is probably why he very audibly jumps when Alfred pokes his head over the side of the bunk and says, with as low a voice as he can possibly muster, “Hey, bro!”

 

     Matthew shoots upright, bangs his head against the ceiling with a thud. “Dang,” he mutters, and frowns over at Alfred. “Al, it’s like eleven. What?”

 

     “What’s Francis planning for tomorrow?”

 

     Matthew sticks out his tongue. In a hush, he replies, “I can’t tell you.”

 

     “Dude, you _gotta_ so I can tell Artie he’s bein’ fuckin’ dumb and paranoid.” Matthew plucks a pillow off the bed from beside him and tosses it at Alfred. It hits him, and he takes it before Matthew can reclaim it. “Nuh-uh. My pillow now.”

 

    “You’re a jerk,” Matthew tells him flatly. “And that’s exactly why I can’t tell you.”

 

    “Why, ‘cause I’ll tell Artie?”

 

    “Duh,” Matthew mutters, and then lays back down. This is obviously to be taken as a cue that their conversation is over, and normally Alfred would just pretend he didn't pick up on it and continue talking, but then Matthew whispers, “Good night, Al,” and Alfred concludes with a slump of his shoulders that he's not wringing any information out of his brother tonight.

 

    “Night, Mattie,” Alfred answers in his best attempt to match Matthew’s low voice, and then he flops back into the bottom bunk. He stares at the glow-in-the-dark stars he’s stuck to the underside of the top bunk until he falls asleep with his glasses still on his face.

 

     The next day, after hours of Alfred blowing off homework by playing games and Matthew diligently doing his homework on the coffee table right beside him, Francis reenters the apartment. He announces his presence with a loud, “Soit prêt, boys! We made reservations for this!”

 

     Alfred pauses his third run of Uncharted 2 to look back at Francis. Matthew’s set down the pen he’s using to review a draft of his essay, and Arthur’s gazing up at Francis from the dining table with a sad expression. This is replaced with a wary smile when Francis leans over the table to plant a kiss on his cheek.

 

    Francis looks over at them. “That means clothing that isn’t sweaters, you two,” he quips with pursed lips, and Alfred glances down at the hoodie he’s wearing with a groan.

 

    Matthew is already disappearing into their room when Alfred finally quits the game and turns off the television. And because his twin is a living saint, he’s tossed out a button-up for Alfred to tug on.

 

     They get changed quickly, with little discussion. Alfred, admittedly, isn’t sure what’s going to happen. He hates this feeling. At most points of time, he has at least a _vague_ idea of what’s going on, but this time, Matthew won’t even dignify his many quiet questions with a sideways look. It’s as if all three of them are keeping him in the dark: Arthur’s too convinced this is a break-up to think rationally, he’s never been close enough to Francis to be able to trace the way he’s acting to a single source, and Matthew won’t tell him anything except that Arthur can’t know whatever it is, which is no help at all because, _c'mon_ , it's Arthur.

 

    So Alfred gets changed with a disgruntled expression and a disappointed feeling in his gut.

 

    When they exit their room, Alfred having grabbed his bomber jacket (the UFO patch on one sleeve that Francis had helped him apply is peeling off, much to Alfred's dismay) to wear in place of a blazer, Arthur immediately cuts off whatever conversation he must’ve been having with Francis with a sharp clearing of his throat. Arthur looks away, appearing vaguely irritated, which means they were probably getting into an argument.

 

     Damn.

 

     Whatever the matter is, it’s forgotten, for Francis plasters on a bright grin and opens the apartment door. They descend the stairs, exit the building, and pile into Arthur’s shitty old car with little chatter. It’s as if there’s an anxious tension choking the vehicle, one that even Alfred and whatever states he sees on license plates and excitedly calls out can’t break. (As far as Alfred Jones is concerned, if the license plate game can’t fix it, nothing can.)

 

     There’s not even anything remarkable that happens when they reach the restaurant, other than the fact that Francis had made the reservation under his own name, and even that’s fairly standard. Arthur doesn’t even seem to be mentally there, staring at the ground in front of him with a hollow expression, Francis is more nervous than he’d care to let on and seems to be responding to this anxiety with a pressed silence similar to Arthur's, and Matthew won’t acknowledge _any_ of that, let alone Alfred frantically jabbing his elbow into his twin's ribs in an attempt to get Matthew's attention.

 

    In fact, the only thing that happens to indicate that any of the other three are living in the present moment is as they’re being seated.

 

    “You know, a dinner seems over-the-top,” Arthur mutters quietly, refusing to meet Francis’ eyes when the taller man looks over at him.

 

    Francis looks confused, but he’s smiling when he answers, “I only wanted to make it memorable.”

 

    Arthur snorts derisively as he slides into the booth beside Alfred. The waiter, a young man with cropped hair and blue eyes who Alfred vaguely feels like he recognizes, looks wholly uncomfortable to be here. “That’s cruel.”

 

    Now both Francis and Matthew look every bit as confused as Alfred’s felt for the entirety of the ride here. Francis opens his mouth as if to speak and then closes it, and it’s only after the waiter has left that he says, with a furrowed brow, “I… should think this is something you’d want to remember, non?”

 

     Arthur snorts again. He’s getting angry. Alfred can’t help but feel that someone at this table has made a dreadful error in communication. “Oh, yes, because I want to remember how it ended, hm? Real thoughtful of you, Francis, I’m glad I’ve spent--”

 

    “Ended?” Francis echoes, sparing Matthew a glance. Matthew’s squinting, looking between the two of them, and whatever’s going on must finally register to him, because there’s a sudden look of realization on his face just before he buries his face in his palms to stifle what can only be described as laughter. “ _Mathieu_ ,” Francis scolds, but Arthur throws his hands out in a dramatic gesture before Francis can finish whatever he’s going to say.

 

    “No, I agree, this is funny! Go ahead, Matthew, laugh. I mean, it’s only the end of one of few good times I’ve ever gotten, that’s funny, right?” The words come out in one hot, aggravated mess. Alfred leans away from his older brother and towards the wall.

 

    “But… it’s going to lend itself to even better times, mon beau…?” Francis is lost. Matthew’s still trying to stifle laughter. Arthur gives a harsh, high-pitched laugh.

 

     “Oh, _no_ , you do not get to pull the _mon beau_ card right now, and, if it’s all the same to you, you absolute _arse_ , better times is a shitty excuse for what you’re--”

 

    “Why would it be an excuse, I thought this--” Francis is interrupted by the waiter returning. He sets down three glasses of water and one of coke, and then places down a basket of bread. Matthew murmurs a quiet _thank you_ as Alfred takes an enormous sip of his coke.

 

    “Sorry for the wait,” he apologizes sheepily, and he winces at Arthur’s sharp intake of breath.

 

    “It’s no issue,” Arthur mutters darkly, and the waiter visibly shudders.

 

    “W-would you like to order now, or wait?”

 

    Alfred is about to make his order when Francis offers a meek smile and says, “Could you give us another few minutes, please?”

 

    “Absolutely, sir,” the waiter answers. He disappears again, and Francis turns back to Arthur, immediately picking up whatever thought he’d put down when they’d been interrupted.

 

    “I thought we had talked about this before, that you’d be happy about this.”

 

    “Yes, we talked about it _two_ __years_   _ ago! When you still didn’t know every awful thing about me! Why in the _bloody hell_ would I be happy about this--”

 

     “Are you… are you not?”

 

     “Of course not, you _git_ , in case you hadn’t noticed I actually kind of _like you_!”

 

     Matthew starts pressing laughs into his palm again. The expression on Francis’ face can only be described as one of absolute bewilderment. After a moment, Francis answers with, “I like you too, Arthur.”

 

    “Then why do this?” Arthur asks the question with an errant gesture that nearly hits Alfred in the face. (He hesitates and mutters a quiet apology when he notices Alfred’s flinch.)

 

    Francis blinks. And then, irritatedly, “I think most people would consider this the ultimate act of two people liking each other, Arthur.”

 

    Arthur snorts again, but this time it comes out as more of a dry sniff, and his cheeks are flushed a teary sort of red. “Breaking up with someone is not--”

 

     Francis stands up straight. He knocks into the table, sending splashes of water from his and Arthur’s untouched glasses onto the table. Matthew immediately springs into action, grabbing the napkin from his silverware to start mopping up the spill. “ _Breaking up?!_ ”

 

    For a moment, the agitated forced humor on Arthur’s face flickers. “Yes?”

 

    Alfred almost wishes he had popcorn instead of bread right now. “Why would I be breaking up with you?” Francis asks in a hushed voice.

 

    “Because you-- you decided it wasn’t worth it, I don’t _bloody know_ , I _do_ know you haven’t been at the apartment ‘til midnight most nights and that you always dodge questions of what you’re doing and that you--”

 

    Francis holds up a hand, sinking back into the booth with a sheepish expression. “That… does all sound very suspicious, okay, but… give me a chance to do this right, mon cher?”

 

    Now it’s Arthur’s turn to look confused. “Do what right?”

 

    Francis gives Matthew an expression that must double as a plea for help. Matthew opens his mouth to say something, but then the waiter’s back. “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

 

    “I’ll take a salad,” Arthur says automatically, not looking away from Francis. Francis opens the menu for the first time, spouts out the name of whatever he notices first, which is only slightly more stupid than Matthew quickly scouring the menu for something good only to order a salad as well.

 

    “Hamburger,” Alfred tells him with an easy smile, and the waiter hesitates.

 

    “This is an Italian restaurant, sir.”

 

    “He’ll have a--” Arthur pauses in his harried attempt to order for Alfred to wave a hand, “--Tomato soup.”

 

    Alfred starts to protest, but the waiter is already nodding and moving away in his hurry to get away from whatever’s going on. “Damn it, Artie,” Alfred mutters, but his curse is lost on Arthur who’s still staring confusedly at Francis.

 

    “Listen, Arthur, you…” Francis pauses, glancing away from the table for a split second. “You are… one of the worst people I have ever met.”

 

    “So this _is_ a break-up,” Arthur cuts in, and Francis groans and shakes his head. “Then what?”

 

    “You, as I said, are one of the worst people I have ever had the fortune of meeting. You’re…  irritable and… uppity and annoying and a worrier and stubborn and smart and witty and hard-working and you care so much more than you let on, and…” he trails off, hesitating. Arthur does not use this pause to speak. He seems stunned into silence. “And I…” Another pause, and then, “Je t'aime tellement.”

 

    Arthur blinks. “What?”

 

    Francis shoves his hand into the pocket of his slacks. As he does so, he says, “My mother once said that I should only give this to the most head-strong lover I’ll have, and I am pretty sure that you are _not_ what she had in mind, but the title fits and…” He nods at Alfred. “YOLO, as this one says.”

 

     He sets a box smaller than his palm on the table. The exterior is navy velvet, and suddenly Alfred gets it.

 

    “You paranoid idiot,” he mutters to Arthur, who’s too busy staring at the box while the cogs in his head turn to reply.

 

    The first thing Arthur says, about two minutes later, while Matthew is grinning broadly and Francis is offering an anxious smile, is, “Are you sure?”

 

    “Oui.”

 

    “What about the nights away?”

 

    “Working overtime to pay for it.”

 

    “And Matthew?”

 

    Francis gives Matthew a look. “Helping me pick it.”

 

    Arthur is silent. “It’ll be a lousy job, you know.”

 

    “I know,” Francis says with a light smile, and at the desperate cock of Arthur’s head, he adds, “I’ve done it for three years, Arthur. It’s not if it’s you.”

 

    “You’re sure?”

 

    “Of course.”

 

    “Then I- I guess it’s, well, it’s fine, isn’t it?”

 

    “Should I… ask?”

 

    Arthur hesitates before nodding, once, so quick and small that Alfred hardly sees the movement.

 

    Francis picks the box back up. He slides out of the booth, falls into a kneel beside the table, and with that same lovestruck smile, he starts, “Arthur Kirkland, will you--”

 

    Arthur cuts him off by surging down from the table and kissing him.

 

     (“Oh, gross!” Alfred shouts, and Matthew reaches over the table to smack him playfully on the shoulder.)

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading, sorry if i take this down in like ten minutes! it was fun to write, at least. i think i write too many high-concept aus that i never post to have done this happy lil piece very well.


End file.
